


flirt

by JeanSouth



Series: UshiOi Ship Week 2016 [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:52:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanSouth/pseuds/JeanSouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 4 - Fantasy.</p><p>Ushijima seeks out a paladin, then the paladin won't go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flirt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Your kudos truly do make my day.

Oikawa Tooru was the Goddess' favourite.

She found him earnest, and flawed, and a fascinating creature. The Goddess, Ushijima would sometimes think, was completely un-understandable with entirely too great a fondness for the bold and the boisterous to head a religion of chanting priests and oft-quiet prayer halls. The Goddess in return would send a twinge of reprimand through the complicated web of scarring on Ushijima's chest until he rubbed at it with his hand and, perhaps sometimes sulkily, admitted that the almighty likely knew best.

Faintly, he would then feel her laughter, like a tinkling of quiet bells just to the left and behind him, though if he turned he saw nothing. Were she a person, Ushijima would have told his Goddess to approach Oikawa Tooru herself, but that was the downside to priesthood: being the Goddess' vessel and her messenger.

“The blessings on your armour are faded,” Ushijima barked out from some six foot away, approaching Oikawa from the back. Years of brotherhood and priesthood silenced a man's footsteps for fear of long lectures from the High Priest; the man had been kind and helpful, but dreadfully boring when he went off on a tangent. He almost blamed the old High Priest for his own meandering thoughts, learned by example.

In front of him, Oikawa jumped, his hands raising half-way up his chest, then jerking back down to his sword. Had he been on horseback, or patrolling, his hand would have been loosely curled around the hilt of his sword in all its steel and emerald glory. He knew because he had seen, had been the one to drag Oikawa from horseback to healing and failed to pry the sword from his hand for fear of the holy power coarsing through his skin to heat the metal fire-hot and scorching. It was nothing but effective against demons, the unholy, but with the poison in his skin where foul-mouthed jaws had locked around his shoulder, he'd thrashed and tried to fight anything that came near.

“I'm sorry?” Oikawa asked him, having caught the noise but not the words of his barked offers of help. The armour looked scuffed and worn; it always took a beating when Oikawa patrolled the deep mountains and the overpass where darkness liked to lurk and grow strong. Ushijima didn't envy him the fight, usually, but it seemed fulfilling to actively protect their lands, their people.

Another sharp twinge reminded him that first of all, he offered solace and healing to the masses, and second – he had a purpose.

“Your blessings are faded,” he repeated, not sure what else to add. There was no more elaborating he could do, unless Oikawa had particular interest in the goings-on of blessings and engravings. The temporary silence seemed to spell an almost-awkward pause. “Your presence is welcome if you're worried to be without it.”

That seemed to hit the nail right on the head, judging by the sudden brightness of Oikawa's face, his brows no longer furrowed, the two tiny threats of wrinkles smoothed out. He peered at Ushijima long enough that were their rolls turned, he would almost be certain he had been looking for too long.

“Where to, then?” Oikawa smiles suddenly, his teeth very white and a bit more pointed than they ought to be. A bad run-in with a deadwalker had left him slightly sharp-toothed and with a fondness for rare meats. Always running headfirst in to danger; it was a wonder his mother hadn't perished from a heartattack as yet. Oikawa stepped forward and looped his arm in Ushijima's, the metal of his armour warm and pleasant from the heat coarsing through his body, his main gauche quickly slid slightly further out of the way to allow them to walk pleasantly side by side. He seemed to follow and lead all at once on their way back to the smaller prayer hall, then further back to the room Ushijima had fallen most fond of.

A narrow, high-cielinged hallway with tall windows showed shadows stretching across the courtyard, though when he stepped inside the room's windows instead let the sun barrel in and warm his face, its soft glow keeping the room warm and cast in a gentle yellow. A few tables were scattered about, with two desks on opposite ends of the room.

One was covered in mess, belonging to one of the priests who favoured adventure and battle, following the paladins to fight and heal as well as he could before they could return to men like Ushijima. His own desk was massive and of solid, dark wood, almost no decoration or miscellany on it. He needed the space, after all.

“Your sword?” He asked as he neared his desk, pulled open and closed drawers to find the right inks. Other priests seemed to always find his well-stocked drawers when their own ran out, saving a trip through the cobwebs in the cellars. Finally, finding the deep-purple ink, so dark it only showed its colours in the sun, he stood straight and looked at the sword on his desk.

It truly was beautiful; made with a mastery and love for the craft, kept honed sharp and ready, with emeralds set on the hilt and a hand-guard that seemed spun almost delicately. If he didn't know better, he'd call it flimsy. In reality, it took more force than most men had to cave the intricate metalwork.

Taking a cloth and a clear, pungent liquid, he rubbed the faint marks from the sword, their green ink only staining slightly. Written in green, as a cliché demanded, the runes he'd had counter-acted the dryads at the foot of the deep mountains.

Purple, instead, pushed back the unholy. The marks were intricate, his hand cramped as he drew them on delicately, his brush-strokes precise and meticulous. One wrong stroke and he may as well not have bothered. The sword's surface seemed too small, almost, but every piece of armour or weaponry did when it came to their most complex blessings and runes.

Oikawa was lucky the Goddess pushed for him so much, as not many paladins had their blessings changed so often, their armour instead blessed when the other runes wore off from use. Favouritism, he thought, and knew he'd feel the twinge in his chest later. She wouldn't make him flinch during this.

Eventually, he finished, straightening his back in mercy for his poor spine.

“I'm glad that's you and not me,” Oikawa commented, his hip against the desk, casually watching. He'd forgotten Oikawa was there. When beckoned, he took his sword and swung it, the purple glancing off the metal in the sunlight where it slowly dried and seeped in.

“It's a craft,” Ushijima shrugged it off, flexing his fingers. The armour would take slightly longer, but he wouldn't have to squint so much. Someday his eyes would go bad.

“It definitely is,” Oikawa agreed, setting his sword aside to not ruin it with its sheath, his fingers passing over but not quite touching them. “You're deeply skilled.”

His fingers, previously gracing the air over his sword where he'd put it to rest, briefly brushed over the exposed skin of Ushijima's wrist, slightly down his forearm. They left a moment later, leaving Ushijima with the itchy-tickly feeling of not-quite-enough and the desire to scratch at his arm.

“Thank you,” he inclinced his head, always willing to see skill where it was to be found – even in himself. He had worked long and hard, burning many a candle to become one of the best within their walls. That no one looked askance to the volume of rare inks he required spoke of a trust and a faith in his integrity and skills that warmed his gut and set his mind to ease when worry attempted to weave its hold on him. “I work at it very hard. Your armour?”

It was barely a change of subject, but it still seemed to startle Oikawa at his sudden change in train of thought. Perhaps a faux pas?

“You'll have to help me, or bellow for my squire. This armour is the most comfortable I've had, but for comfort I have to trade convenience, and I can't get the damned thing off. A stray dragon wouldn't have much trouble cooking me,” Oikawa grimaced, turning to peer over his shoulder and motion to a series of overlapping plates that allowed sturdy straps to barely peek out. They would need remarkable flexibility to reach, and armour limited even the most agile of men.

“Of course,” Ushijima stood, his knee cracking in protest at the movement after being sat for quite a while. Always a sign that he needed a walk, but going for a walk had put him right back in his chair, with popular company to boot. A fair few maidens would envy him at this moment.

His fingers nimbly slipped between the warm plates to work at the buckles, loosening them one by one till the armour slipped off, leaving Oikawa in his off-white linens and a thin layer of chainmail. No wonder paladins had to be chosen by the Goddess, Ushijima thought. If not predisposed to heat, a man could roast under all those layers.

A faint laugh said his Goddess did not disagree; the corner of his mouth tugged up without permission. Her motivess were a mystery, but some things were purely human causes.

“Something funny?” Oikawa queried from behind him, odd in only half a suit of armour. Without it he seemed almost slender, his waist slim and defined under the belted tunic, though his chest spoke of a life of activity and good care. He looked for a moment while he debated with himself whether Oikawa would take well to his true reasons, or would cause a tiring scene.

“The Goddess and I came to the conclusion that were it not for her assistance, you would fare no better than a turkey in an oven in so many layers of armour,” he said eventually. He had no more reason to suspect Oikawa would take poorly to a joke than he did to suspect that a plant would try to throttle him; both were equally inoffensive and largely existed without interference from him unless he chose to insert himself into their lives.

Oikawa's lips twitched slightly before he started to laugh, a low, pleasing noise that couldn't grate even the most jaded of men. It was cut short by the calls of a squire looking for Oikawa. He entered when a loud call from Oikawa drew him closer, hurriedly helping him don his armour again despite its faded protections. As he dressed, Oikawa shot him an apologetic smile, turning and twisting where he was prodded to by his over enthused squire, making up for lack of height with enthusiasm. That one would be a menace in a joust, Ushijima could tell already.

"I've been summoned," Oikawa joked as he finally was allowed to stand up straight, raising a hand to rest it on Ushijima's bicep, their bodies angled toward each other. He winked as he started to turned, and called over his shoulder as he left, "I'll come find you!"

-

"So, the paladin?" someone asked him over dinner, and it didn't strike him as odd until later that his mind instantly connected the word to Oikawa. He supposed that of the times the tingle in the back of his mind had sparked _paladin_ , it had been Oikawa, and his first healing, first term of care had started with a more urgent yell of _Paladin!_ , followed by Oikawa in his sanctum for weeks after, mind reclusively locked away while his body fought infection.

"Yes?" he asked, largely focused on his dinner and his thoughts.

"Of all the people I thought he'd court..." someone mumbled on the other side of the table. He glanced up and found them watching him sceptically. "It's not a bad match, I suppose."

The first voice hummed an agreement, and moved on to better topics. Another paladin, then, Ushijima supposed. Oikawa was courting no one.

-

Oikawa became a regular guest.

Every few days with pastries and fruits, dropping crumbs on the antique chair at a 45 degree angle from Ushijima's desk, his chatter a steady flow in the background of his concentration. He blathered about missions, and home, and arguments within the regiment, and his ambitions - the list never ended, but it was an admirable one. Becoming a general was no small goal, and he would need support. But he was a good man and a good soldier (fond of animals, not too arrogant), and Ushijima would vouch for that.

He left souvenirs of mountain lady flowers; sweet lavender petals and dark green stems, found only on the mountain, past ogre dens and the rough grass that could cut skin. He brought glowing pebbles from the witch-queen's grave when they ridded the world of another necromancer, but the souvenirs did not fill silence.

Again, this week, Oikawa was absent, his missions taking him to a muddy, swampy part of the unfathomable forests where once had stood a king's chateau before a jealous warlock had cursed it with every ounce of his life essence, tethering his soul to the spot. It was largely left alone, but it spawned the occasional creature trying to crawl through from whichever bog it spawned in. He was lost in thought of what class such a monster would fit in to (Eldritch? Natural? Hellish, even?) when his door opened, the momentum of someone leaning on it causing the wood to fly open and swing into the wall, making his hand jerk and his work ruined by the streak of red inks across the armour in front of him.

He was about to scold when he stopped short instead at the sight of a deep split in the armour over Oikawa's left arm, a thick, gooey mess seeping from the cracks. It didn't seem to be blood, but that sort of cut didn't come without injury.

"Your arm!" he stood, striding to Oikawa to pull and prod him into the chair Ushijima had come to see as his anyway. The cut edge of the metal sliced into his fingertip when he ran his hands over the armour to find the buckle holding the plates for the arm in place, but he ignored it until he succeeded in getting it off, the upholstery covered in the unpleasant goo when it slumped from its metal casing. There was thankfully far less, most of it having centered on the cut in the metal.

Underneath, an angry, long gash of a wound stood out glaringly even despite the mess.

"Stay." he ordered, yanking the white bell rope for supplies from the kitchens - they would bring hot water and clean clothes, medicinal soaps that didn't keep long after being made and were kept chilled in the castle cellars. From his desk he janked thread and needles, the bandages he kept handy, rubbed with a thick, pungent herb that promoted healing, and after a moment's hesitation, the materials to bless a wound.

He had no idea, after all, what category these things fell in to. Through the open door, two servants brought him his supplies and left at the thoughtless wave of his hand, his focus on wiping away the horrid ooze, the pile of soiled, wet bandages growing on the soiled floor. It seemed unusually quiet between them, so he glanced up to find Oikawa's intense gaze fixed on him. He frowned in question, turning his head to focus on clearing all debris.

"I think you treating me so often has messed up my survival instincts," Oikawa laughed, sounding slightly tired.

"Clearly," Ushijima replied, his fingers working medicinal creams into the hot skin, staving off infection. "You should have seen your field medic, not come back here. You could have been possessed, poisoned, any number of things."

Pausing to murmur blessings, he shot a sour look at the beginnings of protests.

"Risking your life to come back here... for what? For nothing! This should have been treated on the spot and at least cleaned out and purified, if not fully bandaged." he frowned even deeper, wrapping the wound tightly, pausing to cough when the scent of them overpowered him.

"I wanted to see you," Oikawa told him, his hand on Ushijima shoulder. He hesitated, seeming to try to think of what he could say. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

His hand slid from Ushijima's shoulder and with it seemed to take warmth, leaving a slight chill in the bottom of his stomach for the put out look on Oikawa's face until it was replaced by a more neutral expression shown to the soldiers streaming in behind him with congratulations and concerns.

"Be ready tonight," Oikawa told him, quiet and only for his ears as he stood, swallowed up by the crowd of people.

-

'Tonight', Ushijima thought later, was far too ambiguous. Then Oikawa was there, his own horse at the ready and another by his side, dismounting to help Ushijima up.

"I know how to ride," he protested, puzzled by the tiny laugh and the lewd smile creeping on to Oikawa's face.

"I'm sure," Oikawa told him, leading the way from the city limits and into the forests, past vines and a few pixies, around a wide berth from a rock wyrm nest, then to a clearing. It seemed more lit than the rest of the forest, drawing his eye to the fearie lights around the perimeter. He looked askance to Oikawa, receiving an almost shy smile, then an explanation. "They owe me."

He almost rolled his eyes, wondering how often Oikawa stopped for conversations with the mysterious and the elusive, let alone how often they were in his debt. He watched as a plaid cloth was spread on the forest floor, joined by wines and dinner, seeming still hot and freshly cooked before their journey. Dismounting, he washed his hands in the fresh stream nearby and sat when Oikawa motioned to him.

"I really am sorry for worrying you," Oikawa said as he sat, his hand resting just close enough that his pinky finger touched Ushijima. "I just wanted to see you. After you healed me, back then, I've always liked you as a person, but... you kept approaching me, and it made me want to get closer to you when you seemed so focused. You keep doing things for me you don't do for anyone else, making me feel special."

His hand inched closer until his finger overlapped Ushijima's, then closer until they were almost holding hands.

"But you seem so oblivious to my flirting," he sighed, leaning to the side to rest his head on Ushijima's shoulder. "You're not impressed by my gifts at all."

He almost seemed to sulk. It was... endearing. The thought seemed strange.

"I thought I couldn't get possessed by a demon without confessing to you," he laughed, his free hand caressing the wound on his shoulder. It would need re-dressing soon; Oikawa being tethered to him by the need for his bandages felt oddly satisfying, until the words sank in.

"Confessing?" he questioned, a sharp pulse flickering through his heart. There had been a lot of silence since he'd started seeking Oikawa out on his own, or more accurately, since Oikawa had sought him out. It seemed to reprimand him, nudge him to think. There were few things a man confessed about. He hesitated. "I find your company pleasant."

Not quite the romance novella confession, but it felt like his heart in his hands.

"Back in the olden days, paladins used to bond irreversibly with priests and get Goddess-blessed," Oikawa said, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely serious. The idea was absurd, but... pleasant.

"I believe marriage should come first," Ushijima protested, feeling his cheeks inexplicably heat in a blush at his own suggestion that marriage may come in their future. He hadn't blushed in years.

"Then next time we're here, I'll make sure you want to marry me, then," Oikawa shifted to kneel instead, clasping their hands together.

Oh. He seemed serious too.


End file.
